


Incapacity

by atria



Series: Tezuka vs. Puberty [2]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atria/pseuds/atria
Summary: In ep. 171 Ryoma leaves a tennis match distraught, and Tezuka of all people manages to find him on the roof. This is one version of how he could've known.





	Incapacity

Senior year Japanese so far consists of finding the correct things to say about the moon. Nakamura-sensei studied the Dramatic Arts and is fond of declaiming haiku as she sways down the rows. She called on Tezuka once the first week of school, a phenomenon that has grown more frequent since Tezuka’s head shot up roughly half a foot above his classmates in the past school year.

Dry as dust, she said mournfully once he was done reading, and Tezuka was mortified in the way of children raised on a diet of deserved praise. The rest of the class laughed. It was rare for Tezuka to be less than a natural at something, and they were relieved by its discovery.

Nettled, Tezuka borrows a copy of _Poetry for Dummies_ and secrets it to the roof during lunch as winter herds his peers indoors. Tezuka doesn’t mind the cold. Above him are the sky and a thin slice of midday moon, below the tennis courts: the few things he would, if pressed, consider beautiful.

“Poetry is the expression of the human condition, the distillation of what is beautiful about nature.” Tezuka knows what it’s saying, but also doesn’t. Nature as he knows it is nothing so slight or fickle as feeling – let alone words. The author is fond of words like “distillation” and “crystallization”, which remind Tezuka incongruously of chemistry. That probably wasn’t the point. He stares at page 13 of 407 till his eyes start to hurt.

“This makes no sense,” he tells the deserted roof. “Hnnnnnnng,” it replies.

He whips his head around, and nearly sighs. Echizen. He’s leaning against the door, his limbs a slight puddle in the cradle between wall and floor. Only one eye is open and trained sleepily on Tezuka. At this distance he looks almost soft, though Tezuka knows that body to be as tough as his own, knows how it was honed and what it is capable of.

“What are you reading, buchou?” Echizen says through a yawn.

“We have to write a poem for Japanese class.” He itches to flip the book so its title faces down. “About the moon,” he mutters, doesn’t realise he hoped Echizen would laugh until he does, a low puff of air.

“Ne, senior year sounds like a drag, buchou.”

“It’s useful to learn things we wouldn’t choose to study ourselves.” It would be easier to be stern and buchou if he weren’t uncomfortably aware of the odd contrarian urge that sometimes seized him around Echizen. Even the stiffest of reprimands becomes an invitation to joust. 

“Mada mada dane,” Echizen says nonsensically, his tone more glee than ire. Just like in tennis, he seems to understand that Tezuka is challenging rather than quelling, demanding more from him rather than shutting him down. Sometimes he knows before Tezuka himself. “Buchou, come play a match.”

Realistically, they have fifteen minutes till break ends, certainly too little for them to clear even one game these days. Tezuka stands up. “Don’t be late for class.” He opens the door and Echizen tails him into the gush of heat.

“Buchou, your book." The look on Echizen's face is gentler than a smirk. No cap covers his warm, keen eyes. His left hand is open with the book balanced on his palm, inviting, but Tezuka is wordless, can't speak or move or look away for the feeling.


End file.
